


Watson's mouth

by Tiofrean



Series: Watson's everything [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Rimming, Sherlock has a low and John is there to help, not described, so John is wonderful and patient and tries another, the usual position is not really working, though only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1659194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a low and needs John to take care of him. Loads of fluff and patient John, trying to make Sherlock feel better. Mentions of past abuse, but only mentions. And a very insecure Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watson's mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I had to write it out of my system. I had a low myself (I'm bipolar) and writing always serves as a therapy for me so... here it is. Enjoy!

They were together for a long time now, our Baker Street boys. Long enough for them to understand each other with barely a word. This skills were perfected mostly by John, since he was the one who had to decipher the enigma that was Sherlock. And yet, on some occasions, he needed a little more than an aborted word and intense look of his lover...

Such as on that sunny evening on Tuesday, when upon coming home from work he found Sherlock sitting on their sofa and staring into space. 

“Hi there” he called from the doorway, entering the kitchen with an armful of shopping. “How's the case?”   
“Solved. The wife” came a low grumble. John put everything away, straining his ears to hear if Sherlock had anything more to say. There was only silence, so as soon as John finished in the kitchen he went back to the living room. 

Sherlock was still staring into nothing, lips tight, arms folded protectively around himself. Something was wrong, John thought. He was wearing only his white sheet, his bare feet rested on the edge of the sofa, knees pulled high up to his chest. John frowned and strode toward him. 

“Sherlock?” He asked in a soft voice, crouching before the detective, hoping to insert himself in his line of sight. It seemed to work, for a pair of pale eyes came to focus on his face for a moment, before Sherlock averted his gaze lower. 

“Hey, what's going on?” John prompted, placing his hands slowly on Sherlock's feet. They were cold as ice under the doctor's warm palms, so he rubbed them up and down gently. The detective swallowed.   
“John...” he whispered, closing his eyes. John frowned. Sherlock didn't get into such mood often, he despised being seen as the fragile one. 

“What do you need?” John asked, leaning forward and gently pressing his lips to Sherlock's sheet-clad knee. His thumbs traced a reassuring path on the arcs of the detective's feet over and over again. The younger man swallowed again, opening his eyes only a fraction, still not meeting his doctor's gaze. 

“I...” the detective started, but had to pause for a moment, taking a careful breath. John was getting worried now, it seemed even more serious than Sherlock's usual fits. The doctor got to know his lover quite well over the course of the years they spent together. Sherlock had been depressed, severely so, when he was younger. Then the unattended depression, combined with his character and lifestyle, transformed into bipolar disorder. Sherlock would perpetually go into good and positive mania, highs as he called them, just to slowly slide into depressive lows. 

This low... John hadn't seen a low so deep for a long time. Sherlock was now staring at John's hands still massaging his feet gently, rubbing warmth into his icy skin.   
“Hey, can you look at me?” The doctor asked in a soft voice, squeezing Sherlock's feet just a little. A pair of pale eyes shifted to look shyly at him. 

“Tell me what you need, Sherlock” he whispered carefully. The detective blinked.   
“Do you... could you... do you remember when I had... when I told you about Russia?” Sherlock stammered a little. John frowned again. He remembered that day, he just failed to see a connection to their present situation. 

More than two months before, Sherlock had a nightmare. Not just any bad dream, no. It was that kind of nightmare that grasps you hard, not letting you wake up from it, and even when you finally snap out of it, it still clings to you for hours afterward. John had a hard time trying to wake him up, to convince him that they are at Baker Street, not in some shithole in the middle of nowhere. After a few hours spent on calming Sherlock down, John heard the whole story. From A to Z, how Sherlock had been captured, kept in a small cell chained to the floor, what they did to him. 

John, after hearing it all, hadn't been surprised that Sherlock had nightmares. He's got a few on his own, just because he heard the stories. They ended up in bed that day, Sherlock sprawled out on the mattress, making soft noises every time John's skilled tongue made a pass on his... 

Oh. 

John smiled, finally making a connection. If that was what Sherlock wanted, then Sherlock shall have it. 

"So you want me to..." he started, but even before he had the occasion to finish the sentence, Sherlock nodded shyly, eyes fluttering closed. The doctor's heart clenched, seeing the vulnerable state of this cold and usually rude detective, and decided he had to do everything to bring his normal Sherlock back. Not because he didn't like this rare version of him, but because the detective himself hated to be this fragile. 

John tugged his legs down, setting them gently on the floor. He then shifted closer, bringing his hands to Sherlock's cheekbones, framing his face and tilting it to make him look at John.   
"Come 'ere" he whispered and brought Sherlock down, pressing his lips to a pair of petal-soft ones. The younger man stiffened for a split second, before he relaxed, bringing his hands to John's wrists and holding on to them. The doctor kissed him softly, slowly, carefully introducing his tongue as not to make himself threatening. 

After a few minutes the kiss got more heated, though it was still sweet and slow. The heat transferred through John's little nibbles on Sherlock's plush lips, in just the apex of his tongue pushing past the line of his teeth and further, to stroke his hard palate deliciously. When Sherlock gave a small moan, the doctor decided that this should be transferred to the bedroom. He grabbed Sherlock's arms and, lifting himself from the ground, tugged the detective up as well. 

He led Sherlock, soft limbed and pliant, to their room, closing the door behind them and pushing the clingy detective on the bed. He was still wearing his sheet and John thought to leave it in place for the time being. Instead he shook off his jeans and t-shirt and, wearing only his red pants (deemed ridiculous by Sherlock), climbed on the bed and wrapped himself around his lover, kissing him gently again. 

The kiss left Sherlock panting and John hard, so they started to move against each other, unconsciously seeking friction. The doctor trailed featherlight kisses down Sherlock's neck and over his shoulders, uncovering the younger man bit by bit in the process. The detective just writhed in place trying to squirm closer to John's sweet mouth. Meanwhile John, revealing one pale inch of skin after another, finally pushed the soft fabric low enough to have a full access to his nipples. 

John, never a man to let go of an opportunity to please his detective, started to lick and nibble them alternatively, making his lover gasp in pleasure. With one hand he rubbed and teased Sherlock's left nipple, suckling and licking at the other, shifting his other hand lower and lower, until he could grasp a handful of Sherlock's plush bottom and squeeze. 

The younger man jumped and gasped a quiet 'John', before the doctor could feel his buttock clenching and pushing up into John's hand, silently asking for one more squeeze. The doctor complied eagerly, squeezing for a moment, before he let it go, rubbing his hand all over the pale skin, massaging it gently. Sherlock moaned low in his throat, fisting his hands in the sheet in which he was still wrapped, when he felt John's kisses trail lower, over his fabric-clad abdomen, lower to his hips, lower still, until those soft, thin lips pressed a careful kiss to one of his ass cheeks. 

Sherlock could feel John's hot breath puffing over his skin, over both of his buttocks, ghosting over the crack between them. He moaned again, and John could feel the slight tremors running through him. He placed his palms on his pale thighs and rubbed them reassuringly hoping to calm Sherlock down a little. 

They had talked about it. Once. Just after the first time John rimmed Sherlock into a squealing mass of pleasure. The detective liked the sensations, very much so, but (as he explained later) he didn't want to repeat this particular act again. Not anytime soon, anyway. John was somehow disappointed because he quite enjoyed eating Sherlock out. The younger man enjoyed it, too, he said as much. And even if he hadn't said anything, only a blind fool would not see the overwhelming pleasure this particular experiment brought him... He came twice, for god's sake! - John would think fondly for days afterwards. 

And yet Sherlock didn't like it. Well, not really the act itself, rather the way he was feeling. 'I'm too exposed like this, John' he said when they were settling for sleep a few hours after that first try. John accepted this, much like everything that came with a person you love. And when you love Sherlock Holmes, you learn to accept a lot. 

But now... now John had his mouth on Sherlock's butt, licking the pale, plump flesh, nipping at it with just the tiniest bit of pressure. Sherlock squirmed when John's five-o'clock-stubble tickled the sensitive juncture between his thighs and hips. 

The doctor lifted himself a little, crawled a few inches back, settling comfortably on his stomach. He grasped the lanky legs bracketing his head, closed them together and pushed them to his left.   
“Turn to your side” he prompted, voice gentle but roughened a little with the arousal. Sherlock complied, lying on his right, one hand going to the sheet still wrapped around him. He started to tug it off, but John stopped him, stilling his hand and squeezing it gently. 

“Its alright, love. Leave it, I don't mind” the doctor whispered, kissing Sherlock's delicate hipbone, using one of his hands to rub his thigh and the other to settle the sheet back in place. Sherlock sighed, looking down at John. He brought one hand to the doctor's head, running his fingers through his short dishwater hair, ruffling it fondly. Sherlock moved his palm lower, fingers tracing John's cheeks, his chin, those thin and perfect lips. 

John grinned, which sent a wave of liquid warmth through Sherlock's body. The doctor opened his mouth then, sucked just the tips of Sherlock's fingers inside and licked at them with slow, careful moves. Sherlock's eyes widened and he froze, breathing temporarily stopped, heart racing. The doctor saw this reaction, saw the lust hidden in Sherlock's eyes, guarded and disguised. The look the detective gave him, when he started to suck on the tips of his elegant fingers made something hot and tight pool in the pit of his stomach. He ground his hips into the mattress underneath him, his cock suddenly too hot and too hard. 

He adjusted himself in his pants, stroking a few times to relieve the pressure. He looked up, Sherlock was stock-still, eyes closed and mouth slack. His fingers were still resting in John's mouth. The doctor gave them one last suck and backed away letting them go, before he ducked his head and licked a long stripe from Sherlock's perineum up to his tail bone. He heard a ragged breath and felt the other man shift. Looking up confirmed his suspicions – Sherlock lowered himself, lying down, hands fisted in the sheet around his middle. 

The doctor grabbed his hips and nudged him a little, positioning him, until Sherlock had one leg slightly outstretched, the other bent high at the knee. John lowered his mouth again and pressed his lips to Sherlock's balls, kissing and licking the delicate skin there, feeling Sherlock tense and relax alternatively. He brought his hands up, grasping the full mounds of the ass before him and pushed them apart. He swallowed, seeing the tight, pink pucker. He licked his lips and dove forward, running the flat of his tongue first around it, then directly over it. 

He heard Sherlock's quiet moan, felt his hole squeezing even further, muscles tightening for a split second. John licked again, dragging his tongue first tortuously slowly, then flicked it rapidly back and forth just at the center of the little hole. He heard Sherlock's breath quicken, his thighs tensing. 

“Oh god...” came a quiet huff from above him and John grinned. Here we go... 

He ran his tongue over the pink, wrinkled skin, adding just a tiny bit of pressure, keeping his strokes slow and long, occasionally sucking Sherlock's perineum. He could hear the quiet moans coming out of the detective's mouth, he could feel the clenching and unclenching of his muscles. He raised himself slightly, angling his head so that he could see Sherlock's face. 

The detective's eyes were shut tightly, lips parted in an aborted moan. John licked one thumb and rested it against Sherlock's entrance, pressing just a little, feeling it give slightly. Sherlock groaned, hips shifting. His fists were clenched tightly, one on the sheet near his hipbone, the other grasped at the pillow on which he rested his head. John ran his other hand along Sherlock's thigh, dipping it just so toward his groin. 

He felt those slender hips push forward, chasing his hand when he started to withdraw it. John smiled, kissing the skin in front of his mouth.   
“Sherlock...” he prompted, thumb still pressing in little intervals on the tight muscle. He grabbed the hand that was resting on his hip and pushed it under the sheet, toward Sherlock's cock. 

“Touch yourself” he whispered into Sherlock's skin, loud enough for the detective to hear it. “Slowly.” Sherlock nodded, eyes still shut. His hand started to move at a lazy pace and John kissed his hip just under the sheet folded over it in reward. He pushed the pale cheeks of Sherlock's ass apart again and dove between them, placing his lips firmly over the entrance and sucking. 

Sherlock bucked, a groan escaping him, and John sucked harder, running the tip of his tongue around his hole a few times. It was enough to make his lover pant and squirm, but John wanted more. It might be only a sexual act for some people. For Sherlock though, it was catharsis. That first night, when John had his tongue as deep in Sherlock as it would go, he was trying to erase Sherlock's memory. To take everything that happened while he was kept prisoner and turn it into something beautiful. 

To exchange pain with pleasure, fear with security. He wanted to pour trust and love into Sherlock. He succeeded, to some extend. After that night, Sherlock stopped being shy in bed. He would tell out loud what he wanted, he would demand it. 

Now however... now he got himself into that state again, and it was up to John to bring him back. So he lowered his head again and, inhaling in the musky scent, he put his mouth on Sherlock's hole again. 

John could hear the increasing urgency in Sherlock's pants and grunts, which were louder with every lick. He decided it was enough and stiffened his tongue. He gave the other man just a moment of pause, before he started to press the slippery muscle into his entrance. 

Sherlock's breath hitched, his hand working lazily on his cock stopping to a shocked halt. He could feel John's wet tongue pressing against him, into him in one smooth move. He couldn't stop the moan that escaped him. 

“John... oh god” he chocked out, feeling that wet, wet tongue wriggle inside him, just the tip of it inside, barely breaching him. But the sensations... god the sensations. It was exquisite. John was. 

The detective could feel him start to move and pull all the way out, before he invaded him once again, deeper this time. He could feel the slippery friction the movement created, flaring his nerves. He couldn't really stop his hips from bucking each time John pushed inside. Good thing the doctor had a strong grip on his hips. 

He started to move his hand again, fisting his cock faster than before. He could feel John shifting behind him. Then his perfect lips closed around his entrance and John sucked... 

“God... John... please...” was all Sherlock could manage to whimper out. He could feel himself balanced between too much and not enough, and it was slowly driving him out of his mind. What a pleasant surprise, John stopped his stupid thoughts and memories once again. 

Sherlock's mind came to a halt when he felt something solid prob at his hole next to John's wet and wriggling tongue.   
“Please!” He cried, and John pushed his finger into that hot, tight channel. His tongue was still inside, thrusting slowly, and the finger made a lovely counterpart. The doctor keep pushing it in until his knuckles rested on Sherlock's perineum. 

The detective could hear the wet slurping noise John made when he detached his mouth from Sherlock's entrance. He lifted his head up a little, peering at Sherlock over his hip. The detective was twisted on the bed, one hand working his cock in a steady rhythm, the second still gripping the pillow tightly. His face was turned to the side, hidden in the pillow, and John was amazed that he still was able to breathe in that position. 

The doctor grinned and shoved his second finger into Sherlock, the passage still slick with slowly cooling saliva. The detective jolted but stayed in place, chest heaving with breaths. John twisted his fingers searching for that one spot and...

“John!” Came a shout, heavily muffled by the pillow. The doctor attacked again, massaging his prostate relentlessly. Sherlock started to writhe in place, squirming and bucking his hips. The hand on his cock stuttered for a brief moment, but quickly recovered, applying a rapid rhythm, each stroke ending with a small twist. 

John quickened the pace of his fingers, gently withdrawing them and sliding them back inside, brushing over Sherlock's prostate with each move. The detective finally turned away from the pillow, his back straightening gradually, muscles going tense. 

“John... I'm... I'm going to... oh God! John!” Was all he managed to whine, before his body jerked and he threw his head back. John was waiting for it. As soon as Sherlock twisted away from the pillow he replaced two fingers of his left hand with one finger of each, gently but firmly stretching Sherlock's hole. When Sherlock started to whine, John dove forward, catching the rim of Sherlock's entrance between his lips and sucked, moaning in the process. 

Sherlock thought he'd go mad with sensations. John's tongue on him, again, his mouth sucking... and when he moaned... Sherlock lost it then, delicious vibrations traveling straight to his cock. He stroked once, twice and that was it. He came, eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth opened in a silent cry. His whole body lit on fire for a moment, before pleasure ran along every nerve ending. 

When Sherlock's brain came back on-line, John was at his side, facing him, one hand propping him up, the other moving quickly over his lap. Sherlock shifted closer, limbs not really cooperating, and snuggled up to John, kissing his neck sloppily. The doctor groaned and tensed, breath hitching, before he came, chanting a long litany of Sherlock's name. 

He collapsed on the bed moments later, breathing hard and shivering with aftershocks. He opened his eyes, looking up at the detective.   
“How do you feel?” John asked and Sherlock just snuggled closer, draped one arm over the doctor's middle, pulling him closer.   
“Thank you” he whispered into John's collarbone. The older man just smiled, wrapping Sherlock in his own arms and squeezing him lightly.   
“Anytime” a kiss landed on the top of the detective's head. 

“Sherlock?”   
“Mhm?”   
“What happened that put you into such foul mood?”

There was a long silence. Then a quiet replay made it's way to John's ears.   
“Nightmare.” 

John swallowed, pressing Sherlock even closer to himself.   
“No nightmares tonight, okay?” 

Sherlock just hummed sleepily. When he was with John, he never had nightmares.


End file.
